Fat Tuesday Fricassee (11 page)

“They're releasing your father,” Uncle Saul said. “I'm at the hospital now. The doctor said he shouldn't stay by himself for a few days. Your mother is taking him home with her.”

“Is that a good idea?” I had disturbing memories of some
of the last fights between my parents. I couldn't believe that would be good for someone who was just discharged from the hospital.

“I offered to say at his apartment with him. She won't hear of it. I'll be over there at your mother's if you need me. How's business?”

“I didn't even come close to making enough food. I'm on my way back to the diner to get more. Ollie and Miguel are holding down the fort.”

“I'll see if I can come over and give you a hand after we get your father settled in. I'm sure your mother will go back to work. I could leave him with her housekeeper. The doctor said he'll sleep a lot for the next few days.”

“You just take care of Daddy, Uncle Saul. I'm glad he's going home. We'll work out the food at the Biscuit Bowl. Bye. Love to you and Daddy. Keep an eye on Mom.”

He chuckled. “Maybe I should've brought Alabaster to guard your father. See you later, Zoe.”

Cole had made it to about a block from the diner by weaving in and out of traffic. People had abandoned their cars to stand on the sidewalk, watching parades and the occasional homemade float go by. Sometimes I forgot how exciting carnival was. With so much going on, there was no time to be bored.

“I'll walk the rest of the way,” I told him as he was beating his hands on the steering wheel to keep time with the music outside.

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You sure? I don't mind waiting if you don't.”

“It's gonna take me a while to get all the food together, anyway. Maybe you could come get me after the parade is over.”

“Sure thing. I'll be there.”

I got out of the taxi. I could see the diner from there. I was surprised to see a strange car parked at the door. It
couldn't be a customer. I wondered who the shiny brown BMW belonged to.

Thank goodness it wasn't the car Mr. Carruthers drove!

I danced a little to the music flowing up the street. Even here, beads, tiny stuffed animals, and other throws had been left behind by the festivities. When I was a child, I picked up the leftovers whenever I could. My mother said they were dirty. I thought they were the most beautiful things in the world.

But I was an adult and couldn't go around picking up beads—or even the tiny pink plastic elephant on the ground.

Or maybe I could.

I snatched up the elephant and stuck him in my bag. I looked around like I was expecting someone to be watching me. I hugged the secret that I'd done something I wasn't supposed to like I would have a recipe from Uncle Saul.

I didn't have to wonder for long at the occupants of the BMW. Chef Art and Tucker Phillips emerged as I got there.

Could this day get any more complicated?

“Good morning, Zoe,” Chef Art said. “I guess almost afternoon, eh?”

“Miss Chase.” Tucker nodded as the breeze from the bay played with his long hair.

“Gentlemen—I don't know why you're here. But if you have something to say, it will have to be while I'm cooking. The Biscuit Bowl is about to run out of food. I'm facing a cooking crisis.”

“Well, let me help you with that,” Chef Art volunteered as I opened the diner door. “You and I have made some sweet sustenance together in the past.”

“That's true enough. I'd welcome the extra hands.”

“I'm not so good in the kitchen,” Tucker admitted as he held the door open for me. “I'm here because I got a call from my son. You've been a busy lady.”

I went inside, dropped my bag behind the counter, and peered into my refrigerator and freezer. What could I throw together for the rest of the day? I was prepared for such emergencies, though I'd never experienced them before. When there was a sale on any food I thought I could use, I bought it in mass quantities. I would never use a frozen biscuit, but I would certainly cook with frozen chicken, steak, or vegetables.

I was going to have to go shopping or entice someone to do it for me, probably tomorrow. I had enough chicken to make some spicy chicken stew that might go the distance. I also had some frozen berries that I could make into compote. I didn't see the lemon pie filling lasting all day, either.

“I hope you're not beating yourself up about running out of food.” Chef Art had already removed his white linen jacket and carefully rolled up his white shirtsleeves. “There isn't a professional cook in the world that hasn't faced that
problem at one time or another. It's what we all secretly yearn for and yet despise.”

I passed him an apron. “You're quite a cooking philosopher, sir. I hope you're as handy cutting vegetables.”

“I think you'll probably be faster at that. Let me take the stove. I'm superior when it comes to actual cooking.”

“Okay. I'm superior at chopping. We're a good match.” I took out the frozen chicken. “We're making stew for my savory biscuit bowl. And a berry compote for my sweet. I'm not sure how many biscuit bowls we'll need. I guess I'll do five trays. We'll see from there.”

Chef Art chuckled as he put the chicken into a pot. “I hope you don't use frozen bird all the time. I understand an emergency. And may I suggest that you get an oven in that little food truck kitchen of yours?”

“It just can't handle the electricity. I took out the microwave during the food truck race, but I need it on a regular basis.”

“Maybe you need a new food truck.”

I put a plastic container full of fresh carrots, celery, peppers, and onion on the counter to chop. “For that money I can remodel the diner. Eyes on the prize, right?”

“That's right.”

“I hope I'm not interrupting,” Tucker said. “But my son said you have some ideas about Jordan's death. Perhaps you could share those with me?”

“Only if you're interested that my father was attacked—probably to keep him quiet about Jordan. Having a visit from Commissioner Sloane was inspiring, too.”

He frowned. “Chadwick Sloane tried to warn you off? What did you say?”

“I didn't say much of anything.” I chopped carrots a little faster thinking about it. “But then I started wondering what Jordan was doing at the ball and why that got him killed. I went
to your son hoping he might have some ideas. Someone gave me Jordan's cell phone. The police had already confiscated his laptop. I haven't had a chance to look at the phone yet.”

“Where is it? Let me see it.”

“It's in my bag.” I pointed under the counter. “Take a look.”

Chef Art and I worked in comfortable silence for a while with only the sound of vegetables being chopped and chicken sizzling with garlic and onion. When the veggies were in pieces, I started defrosting the berries I'd saved from last summer. I'd got a good price on a large quantity from the produce market.

“I can't see anything on this,” Tucker said. “I think it's broken.”

I took a quick peek at it. “Nope. It's password protected. We'll have to figure out what password Jordan would've used.”

I showed him how to try different passwords and left him to it. I could hear him muttering for the next twenty minutes as he tried words and phrases that didn't work.

“I can't think of anything else he might have used.” Tucker shook his head in frustration as he stared at the phone. “Maybe I could hire someone to do it.”

“Someone who might be a member of a secret society who will tell everyone what we have?” I reminded him as my first batch of biscuits was baking.

“I suppose that's true.”

“Have you tried things from his childhood?” Chef Art asked him. “That's what I use as a password on my phone.”

Tucker went on trying everything he could think of as he muttered, and occasionally cursed, under his breath. “This is stupid. Why does anyone do such a thing? I open my phone and there it is.”

“I guess you don't have anything to hide.” I added sugar and some lemon to my mixed berry compote.

“What did Jordan have to hide?” he asked.

“Maybe something he was killed for.” A tray of biscuit bowls came out golden brown and smelling like heaven.

“That stuff smells mighty good,” Tucker said. “It's getting close to lunch. Maybe I should call Bennett and see if he has any idea what the secret password could be. Did he give you the phone?”

“No. I can't say who it was. I'm sorry.”

“Kind of crazy giving a reporter's phone to a foodie.” Chef Art laughed. “You were bound to try foods as passwords.”

“What about a girlfriend?” I suggested. “Was Jordan dating anyone?”

“Yes. He was going out with a lovely young lady the last few weeks. I can't think of her name right now.” He got to his feet. “I'm going to call Bennett.”

The door to the diner closed behind Tucker. “This has driven him crazy,” Chef Art said. “Not that I blame him. We've been driving all over the city trying to find out what really happened to Jordan. I'm glad I don't have children. They're a nuisance when they're small and a worry when they're grown.”

I grinned at him. “You really are full of philosophy today.”

“Things like this make a man reevaluate his life.” He tossed some spices and herbs into the pot with the chicken and vegetables.

“Mind how much liquid is in there,” I mentioned. “You might have to drain some so it doesn't soak into the biscuit.”

He stared at me. “I don't know another chef I'd take that from much less a food truck cook.”

“That's because you're Chef Art. No one knows more than you about cooking.” I smiled to ease the sarcasm. Only a year ago I would've felt the same way about him. Knowing him personally made him more human, easy to tease.

“That's right,” he agreed with a grin. “I wouldn't have minded having a daughter like you, Zoe. A girl after my own
heart. I'm afraid if I'd really had a daughter, though, she would've been made out of marshmallow cream and would've hated to cook.”

“Is that what you've been reevaluating?”

“That, and my mission here on earth.” He stirred the chicken. “I've been thinking about starting a cooking school. I'd start here in Mobile. Maybe go nationwide after we test it. You could come and work for me.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don't think teaching is my calling.”

“You could do it part-time when you aren't working the food truck,” he continued. “You could make extra money toward your remodeling project.”

It was tempting, but my time was limited. I couldn't splinter my energies. I had to stay focused. “Thanks. I don't think so.”

He shrugged as I moved another tray of biscuits out of the oven.

Tucker came back inside with a wide smile on his face. “I think I figured it out. You were right, Miss Chase. It was his girlfriend's name—Lisa.”

I looked at the phone again. “You did it! Now you have to search through the files to see what he was working on that might have gotten him killed.”

I had the last two trays of biscuits in the oven. The chicken stew was done, and the berry compote was in a metal container ready to go.

My phone rang. It was Ollie. He was hyperventilating because all the food was gone. “Are you coming back soon?” he asked. “If not, I'm closing down. People are really angry when you don't have food in a food truck.”

“No! You can't close down. It's against the rules. I'll be there in a few minutes. Give out flyers and tell people they get a discount when they come back.”

“Okay. But don't blame me if they eat the flyers.”

I ended the call. “I have to go. You keep working on that phone, Mr. Phillips. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Let us give you a lift to the food truck rally,” Chef Art offered. “It's the least we can do.”

The front door chimed again. “Delia!” I was surprised and happy to see her. “How's your sister doing?”

She looked wonderful in a lemon yellow top and skinny jeans. Both men appraised her as they might have a valuable painting.

“She's gonna be fine, Zoe. I was glad I was there during her surgery, but I knew you needed me. Mama and the other kids are still there with her. They understood when I told them I had to go. I got back as soon as I could.”

She walked over and hugged me despite my being covered in flour and vegetables.

“I'm so glad to see you.” I tried not to get her dirty. “I could really use an extra hand.”

“What can I do? Where's the Biscuit Bowl?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cole's taxi bump into the parking lot outside. “We're about to move a lot of food over there now. Let's get it out to the cars.”

I was lucky to have the taxi, and I took advantage of the BMW. There was just enough room for everything and everyone that needed to go to the food truck rally.

I would have felt bad not riding with Cole, even though I would've liked to have a look at Jordan's cell phone. Now that he had it, Tucker didn't seem to want to let it go. Not that I blamed him. Knowing everything that was in
my
phone, I could see where it would be bittersweet for Jordan's grandfather to look at it.

Delia rode in the BMW—in the front seat with Chef Art. They'd had a brief relationship that had ended soon after we'd met. It wasn't a serious relationship, but I wondered what they talked about going back across town.

I knew Delia had some wishful thoughts about Chef Art at one time. He was rich. I understood her quest for a better life. She'd been raised very poor with a large family. She was always looking for a way to move up.

I wasn't much help with that. All I could offer was friendship and what wages I could afford. That's why I always encouraged her to look for something better. She was my friend. I hoped she'd find what she was looking for.

It took five of us to transport the food to the Biscuit Bowl from the street. It was a stupid rule not to allow any vendors' cars into the parking lot. I was sure I wasn't the only one having a food problem.

We got there just in time for lunch. There was a big parade going on a few blocks over in midtown. The crowds from this morning had evaporated—probably to watch the parade. I was sorry we'd had to turn some people away but was hoping to be ready for the next rush.

Ollie was standing outside with a forbidding expression on his face and dozens of flyers in his big hands. I wasn't sure if anyone would have dared to ask for a flyer. I couldn't fault him for being in a bad mood.

“It's about time,” he said. “Miguel and I have had it rough. There were a few people whose heads I would've liked to knock together. I didn't. But only because I didn't want you to get a bad reputation.”

I hugged him. It was like hugging a rock. “I'm so sorry. I appreciate that you stayed here and handled it. Where is Miguel?”

“Walking Crème Brûlée in the grass.” Despite the hug and the apology, he was still stiff and angry. “That cat has a personality problem. He tried to scratch me again.”

“Where do you want this food, Zoe?” Cole struggled with a large container of berries.

“Thanks. Let's get it all in the kitchen.”

I waited while Cole, Chef Art, and Tucker took what they were holding into the kitchen. There wasn't enough room for all of us in there at one time.

I went to find Miguel and Crème Brûlée. My cat was doing his usual tricks—standing and staring, alternating with meowing and rolling in the grass.

“I can't tell if he likes being out here or not,” Miguel said with a smile.

At least he was still smiling.

“He really likes being out here. He's just being difficult.” I took the leash from him. “Thanks for thinking of him.”

Miguel put his arm around me. “I think he only likes you, Zoe.”

I lifted my cat and cuddled him. He swiped at me with his paw and nibbled on my chin. It wasn't painful.

“I hope you've got a lot of food.” Miguel followed me to the front of the Biscuit Bowl. “Those people this morning were really hungry. I felt like we were in a bad zombie movie.”

I laughed as I made sure everything was set up for my cat. Crème Brûlée was exhausted from his trip outside. He settled down right away and was snoring before I closed the door.

“Thank you for being here. Ollie is still mad at me. I hope he'll take the rest of the day off and come back tomorrow. Delia is back. I think the two of us can handle it.”